Viktor Zakorov was in London, and he was searching for them, though it appeared from the earl’s carefully chosen sentiments that he was not close to discovering where she and her sister were. Still, terror gripped her. The very fact that her uncle’s man was on the same soil as she and Irina made her feel ill.
Lana took a deep breath, attempting to calm the swell of panic, and forced herself to think rationally. There was nothing to indicate that Viktor knew where she or Irina was. He could be here on official business—he was a military man, after all. A Russian diplomat. Why shouldn’t he visit London when Parliament was sitting? There was a war on between Russia and France, and England was one of Russia’s staunchest allies.
But deep down Lana knew better. Fooling herself with excuses wouldn’t do. Viktor was here searching for them and that meant her uncle would not be too far behind.
The correspondences she had discovered in her father’s office were important. It was more than intuition that told her so. Why would he have kept them under lock and key had they been simply what they appeared to be: letters from her uncle to an old lover in France? They had drawn Lana’s curiosity immediately when she’d found them.
Like Langlevit’s words in the letter she now held, her uncle’s written sweet nothings had left her feeling dazed and grasping for meaning. Why hadn’t her father discarded them? And how had he managed to intercept them? Lana had quickly realized that somehow, her father had discovered what the words had truly meant—and he had been murdered because of it.
Lana hadn’t thought twice about handing them to the earl once she and Irina had arrived safely in England. Her father had held Langlevit in high esteem, and after he had gone to such lengths to help them escape her uncle, she trusted him with her life.
“What do you think they are?” she had asked, watching as he’d sniffed the perfumed paper, his brow wrinkling in confusion.
“On the surface? Letters to a woman,” he’d said, but his eyes had narrowed as he placed the letters side by side upon his desk. “But see here? The choice of words—I shall die with desperation before our next rendezvous.” He jerked his finger to a second line further down. “And here—upon our rendezvous June hearts aglow. He uses the word ‘rendezvous’ again, but the sentence makes no sense. Which leads me to think there must be something more being said between the lines.”
“Between the lines?” Lana has asked, frowning.
“A coded message,” the earl replied, pausing to stare at her. “You did not find anything else with your father’s documents? An alphabetized list? A stencil? Anything that could help us discover what these letters really mean?”
“There was nothing else in the safe. Only a folder containing these two pieces of parchment. Why do you ask?”
“I believe your uncle is working with French insurgents and providing them information through letters like these. Your father had confided his suspicions to me, but he must have intercepted these shortly before the accident. Are you certain there was nothing else? Perhaps a cipher? It could have appeared as a spherical contraption, or a sheet of paper with a strange block of lettering—an alphabet that makes no sense.”
“There was nothing else,” she repeated, her heart sinking. The earl’s words had confirmed everything she had suspected. Her uncle was a spy and a traitor. And a murderer. Her father had grown suspicious of his own brother, and both of her parents had been punished for it.
“Perhaps he had hidden it elsewhere,” Langlevit had murmured, running a hand through his crop of sandy blond hair.
Lana had shaken her head. “If he did, then it is still in St. Petersburg, and my uncle will leave no stone unturned. My lord, my father was murdered because he had these documents. My mother…” She could not finish for the hard knot that formed in her throat.
A cold mask of rage had descended over Langlevit’s features. Lana had no doubt that he was a gentleman and would never hurt her or Irina, but in that one moment, she’d caught a glimpse of the ruthless military officer he was reputed to be. It hadn’t made her afraid. It had made her hopeful.
“I know,” he’d ground out, hovering again over the correspondences laid out on his desk. “Count Volkonsky and Baron Zakorov will answer for their crimes. I’ve no doubt these letters will prove their guilt.”
Neither did she. But first they had to know what they said.
“My father must have found a way to translate the letters, or he would not have gone to such lengths to keep them from my uncle. Can you learn what the letters say without this cipher?”
“Possibly.” But Lana was aware that it was a false hope. Deciphering the letters without the help of a cipher would be like searching for a single, specific stalk in an entire field of wheat—a near impossible task. Without being able to prove that the letters were indeed treasonous, they’d have nothing. Langlevit had assured her that he had the best agents in the War Office working on it.
Until then, she and Irina would have to stay hidden.
Lana crumpled Langlevit’s message in her fist. She hated feeling like a trapped hare. But there was nothing she could do. If Viktor or her uncle found her, they would kill her to ensure her silence. They would kill Irina, too, and that was something Lana feared more than her own death.
Until she had incriminating proof, she was at a disadvantage. She had entertained the idea of luring her uncle in with the promise of the letters and then somehow goading him into a confession with witnesses present. But she knew that it would be a long shot. Her uncle was far too clever to fall into such a trap. Langlevit had confirmed the same and warned her not to be so rash as to engage with Zakorov or her uncle—they were both seasoned in the art of war and would not be deceived by such a scheme. However, the idea had never fully left her mind.
And now the Findlay family was preparing to leave for London for the season. Viktor would be there, mingling among the ton, and Lana would have to be ever more prudent should their paths ever cross. Viktor knew what she looked like, though he would hardly expect that she would so lower herself into the position of a maid. Not that a life in service was intolerable. The Findlays treated her like family, and for that she was more than grateful, but she wanted her life back. Not for the fine dresses and balls that went on through the night, or even the handsome gentlemen who courted her with sweet-smelling bouquets and non-coded sonnets. Those things, as lovely as they had been, were not so very important anymore. Irina was. Protecting her was all that truly mattered. What Lana wanted most was the simple luxury of having her sister returned to her.
In her room, Lana held the message to a candle, letting the flame eat away at the parchment. Though written in their secret language, she couldn’t take the risk that someone would find the poems, decipher them somehow, and put Brynn or her family in danger. She was already a threat to their safety if Viktor got wind of where she was. They’d taken her in on the Countess of Langlevit’s recommendation, and Lana would not wish any harm upon them.
After tending to her mistress’s needs, Lana busied herself getting ready and called for a carriage into the village. She composed a hasty reply to Lord Langlevit and gathered her unsent letters to Irina. It was early yet, but she had some errands to run for Brynn, including retrieving some new gowns that had been finished for her trousseau. They were to leave for London at the end of the week.
As Lana waited by the back entrance for Colton to bring the carriage around, she thought of how similar the London season was to the one in St. Petersburg. Full of balls and dinners, theater and music, fashion and politics. The ballrooms would be full of gorgeously dressed dancers, twirling in their finery beneath the flickering lights of the candlelit chandeliers. Dancing had always been her very favorite part of the season. She thought of the sumptuous gowns she had left behind and sighed. They would do her little good here anyway. Perhaps they would be waiting for her when she returned, for she would return. She and Irina would go home one day soon.
She closed her eyes and recalled the last
waltz she had danced. It had been at the Bobrinsky crush, and Lord Du Beauvoir, a handsome French marquis, had asked for her hand at the end of that very ball. Her uncle had refused, claiming that the man was a fortune hunter. Now Lana knew the true reason behind that decision and the six other suits he had turned down—he’d coveted her dowry for himself. That scheming, murdering knave.
Trembling softly, Lana forced her sadness and anger at bay. She knew she couldn’t dwell upon thoughts of her uncle or her previous life in St. Petersburg—not without sending her spirits into a downward spiral—so she turned her mind to the practical errands she would tend to while her mistress and the rest of the household slept in. A trip to the village would also give her a chance to leave her sister’s letters in the oak without the interruption of a certain arrogant gentleman. Near the end of the drive, she signaled for Colton to stop the carriage at the gate.
“Lady Briannon wishes for some wildflowers for her room,” she said as the horses came to a nickering stop. He opened the door and helped her down. “I’ll only be a few moments,” she told him, walking toward the oak tree and the sprouts of purple crocus, pink camellia, and bright yellow daffodils. A glance over her shoulder showed Colton checking on the mounts, paying her no mind at all. She breathed out and crouched down, quickly pulling her letters from her cloak’s inside pockets. Lana tucked the letters into the hollow near the base of the oak tree before pulling up a handful of blooms.
“Finished!” she called brightly to Colton, who returned to help her into the carriage once again. The tightness in her chest dissipated as Colton urged the horses onward. She’d half expected Lord Northridge to pop out of the woods to catch her in the act as he’d nearly done the last two times. He certainly was suspicious of her—although, now she knew he thought her merely a girl of loose morals.
She sat primly on the velvet cushions. Perhaps he only wished her to be such a girl. Lana easily recalled Lord Northridge the other morning, sitting across from her in this very same coach, undressing her with those bottomless blue eyes. He’d wanted her then. And he’d wanted her when he kissed her in the hallway. Her lips tingled as a warming shiver wound through her. A girl with questionable morals would have given in and let him part her lips to claim her fully.
An aching feeling unraveled in the lowest regions of her stomach, and the moment she recognized it for what it was—a stab of pure, undiluted longing—she shifted her weight and recrossed her ankles. But she could no sooner stop a storm than the deluge of heat spreading to her hips and her breasts at the thought of Lord Northridge devouring her mouth and possessing her with his lips, teeth, and tongue.
Bother!
Mortified at her unladylike thoughts, she refused to think of Lord Northridge and his wretched kissing for the rest of the ride into the village.
Breckenham was a charming little town, its main road as ambling and curved as a hair ribbon that had been tossed to the ground. Shops centered the town, while homes and farms dotted the road both north and south. A milliner’s and blacksmith, a cobbler and cooper. There was a tavern and an inn, a livery and a butcher shop, and of course, a seamstress, which was Lana’s destination. The proprietor had seen to alterations for a few gowns Lady Dinsmore had ordered for Brynn from London. Lana was in and out of the shop quickly, the seamstress dismissive of her, though not because of her status as a maid. Lana was quite sure her slight Russian accent alarmed the lady, as it did most people. A foreigner in a small village was something to be gawked at it, it seemed.
It didn’t bother Lana as much as it had when she’d first joined Lord and Lady Dinsmore’s staff. In the beginning, she’d had a difficult time believing her uncle and Viktor had not followed her and Irina out of St. Petersburg, and any attention given to her because of her accent would cause Lana to glance up and around, panicked that she had just been given away. It was silly, of course. But hearing her uncle speak so blithely about her impending murder had chiseled fear deep into her soul and had stripped her of any feelings of safety. Lord Langlevit had given a semblance of that safety back to her, and over the last handful of months with the Findlay family, she’d started to feel even more secure.
Lord Langlevit’s note that Viktor was in London had shaken that, however, and as Lana left the seamstresses shop, she found herself searching up and down Breckenham’s main road for anyone who looked out of place.
Viktor was a small, wiry man with dark hair and an imperial beard and moustache, and her uncle, Count Volkonsky, had the same tall and broad build her father had possessed. He was a handsome man, her uncle, and clearly a well-trained liar. But there was nothing strange about the village that morning.
Of course there isn’t, she chastised herself as she handed off the boxes to Colton. Viktor was in London. He had no reason to come to Essex. Langlevit had covered her and Irina’s tracks well. She had to have faith in that.
Colton was busy securing the boxes to the top of the carriage when Lana’s eyes caught on a horse and rider emerging from a cross lane. The rider directed his mount to the south, in the opposite direction of the cluster of shops where she stood. Had she not already been eyeing the road for anyone who seemed out of place, she might not have seen him.
Lord Northridge had not glanced up the road, and so he had not seen his own carriage or his sister’s lady’s maid standing idly beside it. Lana raised her chin, following the sight of his straight back and his mount’s proud dock and swishing tail. Curious. There were only homes and farms along the southern portion of the road, and none of the large manors belonging to members of the beau monde.
She wanted to know where Lord Northridge was going, though she couldn’t quite put her finger on the exact reason why. It had nothing at all to do with the fact that he cut such a fine figure upon his horse. He seemed quite focused on his destination. Lana felt her feet move forward of their own accord, as if to follow him.
She pulled back, though, hesitating. Whatever Lord Northridge was doing, it was his own business. And yet, as he and his horse closed in on the bend in the road up ahead, Lana felt the undeniable urge to know where it was he was going. There could be nothing of interest to a young lord down that way.
Unless he was meeting someone. A mistress perhaps. Exactly the vulgar thing he had accused her of doing, the hypocrite!
If he were indeed meeting someone for a clandestine tryst, she would be livid. How dare he try to shame her so unjustly when he may very well be doing the same thing right now?
Vindication.
That was why she needed to follow him.
“Do you have any errands to see to, Colton?” she asked the driver as he was climbing back down from the top.
He straightened his white wig. “Nothing pressing.”
Lana racked her mind for any excuse to delay their return to Ferndale. “I forgot,” she said, tapping her chin. “Hatcher said something about a saddle at the tanners. I can’t remember exactly, but perhaps you should check and see if there is something there for the stables?”
Colton nodded and started to open the door for Lana, but she put up her hand with a bright smile. “Oh, no, I think I’ll take a walk while I wait for you. It’s such a beautiful morning. I’ll meet you back here shortly.”
And without waiting for him to reply or argue, she turned and followed the road south, toward the bend in which Lord Northridge and his horse had disappeared.
Chapter Five
The slate roof and twin chimneys of Sir Gerald Cooper’s home came into view the moment Gray rounded the corner along Breckenham’s village road. The home was one of the village’s statelier residences, with a large yard that ran down to the shallow but wide Brecken Kill river. Sir Cooper and his wife, Constance, were good folk. The finest, in Gray’s opinion, among the nobility and gentry alike. As he dismounted and walked through the open gates to the half-moon gravel drive, he was, once again, happy he had found the courage to approach them three years ago.
Gray handed off Pharaoh to Sir Cooper’s stable b
oy and headed for the front door. It opened before he could raise a fist to knock, and he met with the wrinkled face of the Coopers’ butler.
“Good morning, Higgs,” Gray said, stepping inside and removing his riding gloves. His stomach kinked the way it always did when he paid the Coopers a visit. An annoying mixture of nerves and excitement and, he supposed, a bare measure of regret. Although there was little he could do about the latter.
“Good morning, my lord,” Higgs replied, making a swift but short bow. He had to be one of the most ancient butlers Gray knew of, and yet the Coopers had deigned to keep him on. Most likely until Higgs was no longer able to walk—or breathe. Whichever came along first, Gray supposed.
“Lady Cooper is expecting you,” Higgs said, and he turned his rail-thin form toward the receiving room to the left. Gray followed his achingly slow lead, trying all the while to refrain from pushing past him.
The sitting room was pristine as usual, its east-facing windows allowing a spread of warm sunshine over the floors. They were a modest gentry family, but as Lady Cooper stood from her sofa cushion to greet him, he was struck again at the elegance she bore.
“Lord Northridge,” she said with the pleasant, genuine smile he had appreciated right from the start. “You are well met.”
He took her hand and bowed over it. “Lady Cooper,” he said before straightening his back and releasing her hand. “I hope I find you well?”
Gray cast his eyes about the small receiving room. It seemed they were alone.
“Yes, indeed,” she replied, gesturing toward a chair by the hearth and then bidding Higgs to send for tea.
Gray lowered himself stiffly into the chair as the butler shuffled out of the room and Lady Cooper returned to the sofa.
“I apologize we were not here the other day,” she began.
“Not at all. My arrival was unexpected.”
“Yes,” she said. “I heard of Lord and Lady Dinsmore’s misfortune on their way to the Worthington Abbey ball. No doubt that is why you came to Essex? I do hope they were not harmed by this wretched masked bandit everyone is speaking of?”
My Darling, My Disaster (Lords of Essex) Page 6
